An Exchange of Words
by Suki
Summary: Meryl thought she was heading to bed for a good night's sleep. Boy, was she wrong . . . a lot can happen during a simple exchange of words. [Vash and Meryl have a quiet moment]


What had happened? The last thing Meryl remembered was her and Milly heading up the stairs to go to sleep in the inn above the tavern, and the next thing she knew, she was stuck dragging a drunken Vash to bed instead.

Ah yes, now she remembered. The bartender had called to her hunched back as she was following Milly up the stairs, yawning and stretching sleepily.

"Hey, you! Miss!" he held his hand out to attract her attention.

Meryl turned around dejectedly, shoulders slumped.

"Do you know this guy?" the bartender continued, gesturing to a heap of bright red fabric flailed out over the bar. "Could you please get rid of him? He's bad for business."

Meryl's eyebrow twitched. "Milly, could you give me a hand with –"

But Milly was gone. The large girl had stumbled up the stairs and disappeared into the darkened corridor. She was probably already flinging herself into bed, Meryl thought enviously. She contemplated a minute going up to fetch her, but decided against it. The ever-cheerful young woman had had a long, busy day. Meryl smiled affectionately, in spite of herself. Let her get some rest.

Now how was she going to go about doing this? Marching over to where the fearsome Human Typhoon lay face down in a drunken heap, the short-haired young woman seized him by the arm and shook vigorously.

Nothing. Only a soft moaning.

"Oh, come on Vash, I am _not_ going to carry you!"

Grasping one of his long arms in her small hands, she heaved with all her might. This time, the man complied all too well. As he lurched into her, she had to clutch for the side of the bar to keep from falling underneath the gunman's huge weight. Her knees bent slightly as she grasped around his waist, holding on for dear life. The man was slender, but he was all muscle.

_ Don't fall . . . do not fall . . ._

Shifting Vash's body so that one arm was slung around her shoulder, she heaved underneath him, trying to lift as much of his weight as she could. Fortunately, the man was just conscious enough to sense that he was about to be moved. Automatically, he put his feet down to support himself and prevent him from collapsing, and Meryl found that when she walked forward, holding the one arm around her shoulder, and with her other hand, grasping his waist, she could even get him to walk.

In this way, she awkwardly sidled out of the tavern, grumbling to herself.

Getting him up the stairs was a whole other problem in itself. Meryl couldn't help feeling like a work Thomas, heaving her huge burden from underneath, step by step.

Vash murmured something, and the small woman resisted the urge to drop him and let him fall all the way down the stairs. That would wake him!

Finally, turning into the corridor, she fumbled along the wall, searching for the first door to the left – Vash's room. After a near-death encounter involving stumbling over a very inconveniently placed black cat, Meryl managed to fling open the door, and trudged in with Vash. The door swung closed softly behind her.

The inn room was dark and small, with a single bed in the corner. Moonlight from the window spilled onto the bed like a waterfall and splashed onto the floor, leaving little alternating puddles of light and shadow on the unpolished wooden floorboards – an odd pattern.

"Rem . . . ."

Meryl looked at him hesitantly. Was he dreaming? His eyes flickered softly underneath his lids. In her mind's eye, she could picture his eyes when he was awake – they were a shockingly beautiful aqua blue. Catching herself in this thought, she was startled that she could remember the exact shade of a stranger's eyes. Why, most people she had to know for years before she actually paid attention to such a detail. Then again, this man was certainly always the exception in everything else – why not this too?

Carefully, she made her way toward the bed. The tall man, however, remained a dead weight on her back, hanging limply.

Now was the hard part. She had to figure out how to get him onto the bed, without catching herself underneath him. The thought of him lying on top of her made her stomach feel funny. No, she must avoid that at all costs. Shifting her body, so that her front now faced him, she started to lean him toward the bed. But as luck always had it, Meryl's plan backfired. Vash's legs took that exact moment to give in, and he started to fall forward, with Meryl underneath him.

There she was, laying diagonally on her back across the mattress, crushed under the weight of one, Vash the Stampede.

"I'm gonna kill him . . .," she muttered, in a frighteningly matter-of-fact tone, "I'm gonna kill him . . . ."

After three minutes or so of struggling, Meryl managed to heave herself completely onto the bed. Now, to wiggle out from underneath him . . . .

And then Vash flung his legs over onto the bed, and she – was – completely –_trapped_. He had pinned her down to the bed, the full weight of his bulk practically smothering her, his head burying into her neck, blonde spiky hairs tickling her nose.

Meryl's eyebrow twitched dangerously. For just one moment, the Humanoid Typhoon was blissfully oblivious to the fact that his life hung in the balance of one very short-tempered female. She glared down at him, preparing to raise a fist and deal a fatal blow to the side of his head. That should get the broom-head off of her.

But as she looked down at him sleeping, his mouth parted open ever-so-slightly, the wrath she had felt so tangibly only a second ago seeped out of her. He was peaceful and innocent looking, almost like a child. A few more strands of goldenrod hair were already falling over his eyebrows. Meryl's gaze softened when she saw his dark eyelashes flutter against pale cheeks, his small birthmark beneath his eye a speck of imperfection on flawless, soft skin. The dark-haired woman bit her lip, then turned her head toward the window in a sigh of defeat.

Vash always won his battles, even when he was too drunk to witness them.

Meryl guessed she would be staying here for the night.

The insurance woman squirmed a little, and managed to get at least mildly comfortable. She was able to move so that Vash was no longer lying directly on her but only crushing the left side of her body. His left arm and leg hung over her as if she were some massive body pillow. His head she had managed to nudge down so that his hair was no longer prickling her face. It now rested heavily just beyond her left shoulder, on her chest cavity . . . over her heart. She combed his hair away from her chin, and the thick blonde strands stayed put, so that even more hair now fell in a messy flop over his forehead.

Meryl didn't know how long she laid there. She couldn't fall asleep, but whether it was from the awkward circumstances, the proximity of this mysterious man, or from the day's long and worrisome work and the even more busy day ahead of her, she didn't know. The sixty-billion double dollar gunman slept like an angel.

The moons altered position in the night sky. The first two had already set, but the last one moved, taking the others' places, so that there was a constant flow of moonlight onto the bed and into Meryl's grey eyes, but she didn't mind.

Meryl watched Vash thoughtfully. Who was he? And what was more . . . why did she care? Hesitantly, she reached her right hand out, letting it hover just over his face. Then, so softly that it could have been a butterfly's kiss, she swept his bangs out of his face. There. Now she could see him more clearly.

Deciding it was time for a readjustment, the young woman gently lifted his head so she could settle more comfortably into the pillow, then lay it tenderly back down on her breast. What a strange thing . . . why was she taking such care?

With this pensive question making strange twisting sensations in her chest, Meryl suddenly froze in mid thought. The man in her arms stirred slightly. Then, to her dismay, his eyelids fluttered open. His eyes met hers instantly and locked her gaze into place.

But a strange thing happened . . . .

_Nothing_.

He was watching her, silently, un-moving, with those bright aquatic eyes.

She had to do something, quickly, before the intensity of those deeply sorrowful eyes made her either scream or cry. "Um . . .," she smiled sheepishly, hoping she didn't sound as embarrassed as she felt. "Sorry, I was just adjusting." Why was her face suddenly so hot? Oh, no! Was she blushing? She wished the moonlight would go away.

So slowly as to be imperceptible, he moved his right arm underneath him and started to lift himself up from off of her. His head was still hovering a few inches from her heart, and his face was close to hers – terribly close – when he murmured, "I'm sorry . . ." His voice was soft and heavy, and he spoke slowly as well, as if it hurt to break the silence. Or perhaps it was just his hangover making it difficult to remember how to talk. Indeed, he looked like his head was killing him. "I didn't mean to . . . I'll get off now." He never broke contact with her wide eyes.

He was that other Vash again, Meryl realized with a sharp, sudden pain in her chest; that sad, dangerous man who cohabited the carefree, lecherous, doughnut glutton's body. He only came out when his counterpart was very, very tired. And his eyes, still looking into hers, poured their sorrow into Meryl.

"It's okay," she found herself saying softly, and to her utter surprise, she realized she was pushing him gently back down.

If the man, too, was surprised, he seemed less so than she. He settled contentedly onto her; his head found its way back onto her chest, finally breaking their eye contact. Meryl felt a subtle surge of relief, which manifested itself in a deep breath filling her lungs.

_Inhale, exhale_: his head went up and down with the movement, as if riding a wave.

He spoke again, and she felt his voice more than heard it, rumbling gently into her chest. "You won't think . . . I'm a lecher?"

She looked at him rapidly, but his eyes were unfocused. He wasn't looking at her.

She thought for a moment. "No." Quietly, like a feather landing.

A pause.

Then, "I know you don't think of me in that way, Vash."

She felt his head move slightly upward, for now he was looking at her, but her own face she turned stubbornly toward the window. Why did that revelation cause her throat to tighten? She felt him move his head downward again, away from her face.

"I'm sorry."

She could hear the guilt heavy in his voice.

Her eyebrows furrowed painfully. Sorry? He was apologizing for never hitting on her? Yet . . . the fact that he'd never tried did make her feel . . . .

She shook her head imperceptibly, not allowing herself to continue down that possibly dangerous path of thought.

And then, there was the way he said it. It was in the same pained voice in which he spoke whenever he took the blame for something he shouldn't. A horrible vision flashed through her mind: Vash, that tall and handsome man, head bowed, accepting a woman's rambling accusations. Oh, why, why did he try to shoulder the whole world's burden?

His heavy sigh tugged her gently from her thoughts. He must be very, very tired indeed.

"Besides," she added cheerfully, trying to sound nonchalant, "it's only natural you'd go after the pretty women." She wondered if she sounded as bitter as she felt.

When he spoke, his soft voice, barely above a murmur, caught her complete attention. "You know . . . don't take it the wrong way . . . but . . . I _do_ think you're pretty," he finished gently.

She risked a glance at him. He was still staring off into oblivion, but she felt a sort of warm thawing in her body. Even if he didn't mean it, it was nice of him to say so. He did care about her feelings: of course he did, he cared for _everyone_.

Vash's eyes blinked a couple of times. His lids lowered gradually and remained closed. He moved a little; Meryl even thought, nestling into her. His leg had removed to lie chastely on the mattress, but his left arm rested languidly across her torso. He tucked his head into her neck just so (thwarting all of Meryl's earlier efforts to keep him away from it). His nose was faintly touching her, and his warm breath tickled her cool, clammy skin. His breathing deepened and became rhythmical.

Meryl wondered if he would remember any of it in the morning. Again, the foreign tightening feeling awoke at the thought. But she pushed her self-searching questions out of her mind.

She lowered her head and rested it lightly on top Vash's. For the rest of the night, despite her worries, she slept better than she had in months.

**End**


End file.
